Astoria
by RosieAnnieUSA
Summary: The comfortable lives of two successful businessmen in Astoria, Oregon, are threatened when an unwelcome man from their past reappears.
1. Chapter 1

The pounding on the door roused Jacob Wheeler from a deep sleep. Stumbling out of bed, he reached for his robe in the dark room.

"I'm coming, I'm coming, for God's sake! This had better be good!" The pounding was accompanied by shouts as he fumbled his way to his front door.

"Jake! Get up!"

He jerked the door open. Sheriff Ed Eberly stood in the dim light of a street lamp.

"Jesus Christ, Ed! You're going to wake the whole town! What's so important that you've got to drag me out of bed in the middle of the night?"

"Sorry to wake you, Jake, but when I tell you who I've got in my jail, you'll be glad I did."

"I doubt it. But now that I'm awake, you might as well come in." He struck a match to a light as Eberly entered and closed the door behind him.

"Alright," said Wheeler. "Tell me who you've got that's worth my getting out of a nice soft bed."

"I've got Kid Curry himself. In the flesh." Eberly grinned as Wheeler's jaw dropped. It wasn't often you could shock Wheeler. He always seemed to be one step ahead of everyone else.

"I don't believe it."

"Believe it, Jake. It's him."

"How are you so sure, Ed? Have you ever seen him before?"

Eberly shook his head. "No. Well, yes. Oh come on, Jake," he said, noting Wheeler's expression. "I saw him once from a distance. But I'm sure this is him. Not only does this man fit the description, but I had word a few days ago out of Portland to watch out for him. He was involved in that mess in The Dalles last week. Did you know that?" Wheeler shook his head.

"Anyway. Seems he had a few drinks too many in Portland a couple days ago, and got to bragging about his reputation. Somebody there had half a brain and went straight to the sheriff, but Curry lit out. We were notified that he might be running this way."

"That's not enough to prove this man is Curry, Ed, and you know it. There've been plenty of sightings over the years, and nothing came of any of them. Reports of his being in the area aren't enough to prove you're holding the one and only Kid Curry."

"For God's sake, Jake, it's him. And he's not denying it, by the way. He wants a lawyer, and you're always telling me how you understand criminals. Do you want the chance to defend Kid Curry or don't you?"

Wheeler considered. "He got any money to pay for a lawyer?"

"You're a born lawyer alright, Jake. Yeah, he's got money, a couple hundred. Claims he won it playing poker. "

"Alright, Ed, I'll be over as soon as I get dressed. And try to keep this quiet, will you? I don't want a bunch of newshounds crowding me out of there before I get to talk to this man."

"Why do you think I came over now, Jake? Everybody in town's asleep. Just get yourself over there, and you can thank me later. This'll make you famous!"

Wheeler closed the door quietly. He listened to the sheriff's footsteps fade away as he walked down the wooden sidewalk back towards the jail, and he thought about Eberly's words. He'd already been famous, once. The last thing he wanted was to be famous again.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sorry, Jake, but we've got to search any visitor thoroughly. Curry's famous for escaping from jail. We can't take any chances."

Jacob Wheeler held his arms straight out from his sides as Deputy Ferris patted him down. "Understood, Ed. Just make sure his hands don't wander. If he gets any more thorough, we might have to get married."

Ferris paused, blushing. That damn lawyer always had a smart-ass remark.

"He's clean, Sheriff."

"Glad that's over," Wheeler said. "Can I see this man now?"

"Sure, Jake, sure. Ferris will go back with you."

Wheeler looked at Eberly. "Alone, Ed. Anything said between me and a client is privileged communication."

"If you want to get in the cell with him, Ferris should go with you. It's for your protection. You forget, Curry's a killer."

"I don't need to hold hands with him to talk, and I don't need Ferris. And we're not sure that this is really Curry."

Eberly crossed his arms. "I'm sure. Just be careful."

"Oh, you know me, Ed," he said, smiling. "I'm the soul of caution."

Jacob Wheeler noticed the aroma of the cell block first. The clammy odor of dampness, dirt, and stale urine was too familiar. Whenever he met a client here, a whisper of the old dread always arose in him, and he felt a panicky desire to grab a gun and force his way out. He reminded himself, again, that he was there on the invitation of his friend, the sheriff, and that he was a respected member of the community. He consciously straightened his shoulders and walked in with his typical appearance of confidence. Towards the back, he saw a solitary figure sitting up, wrapped completely in a blanket and facing the wall.

"You there. Sheriff Eberly tells me you wanted a lawyer. I'm Jacob Wheeler."

The figure shifted slightly but didn't speak. Wheeler tried again.

"Eberly tells me you're Kid Curry. That true?"

A low voice emerged from under the blanket.

"That's who everyone says I am. Guess that makes it true."

Wheeler hesitated. Where had he heard that voice before?

"It's not important what everyone else says. What do you say? Are you Kid Curry?"

The prisoner moved a little. The blanket slid down to his shoulders, revealing curly hair.

"Does it matter? They're saying I shot those girls. If I did, wouldn't matter who I was."

Wheeler moved closer. "It matters. A jury might give some stranger the benefit of the doubt, say it was an accident. But Kid Curry's reputation would precede him. Nobody would believe that his shot went wrong. They'd convict."

The prisoner ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah. That's what I figure, too." Something about that voice, that posture . . . realization hit Wheeler like a fist. Before he could run away, the man stood and faced him. The prisoner's jaw dropped; he backed slowly into the corner, fear on his face.

"You . . .it's. . . it's . . . " the prisoner sank to the floor, trying to make himself disappear.

"Yeah," said Wheeler. "It's me. Here we are, together again." The prisoner stared, open-mouthed. His jaw moved, but no words came out.

"Five years earlier, we were in the same places, weren't we, Kid? Strange how little things change, isn't it. You were on one side of the bars, in jail for murder. And I was on the other side. "

"I never . . . Mr. Heyes, I never meant . . ."

The lawyer's voice was low. "The name's Jacob Wheeler, Kid. You seem to have mistaken me for someone else. But I remember your name, better than you do, it seems. I remember all the promises you made in Montana, too, about how you'd never do that sort of thing ever again. Now tell me, Fred - what are we going to do about this?"


	3. Chapter 3

The hotel restaurant was almost full when Jacob Wheeler arrived. He nodded friendly greetings to several diners.

"Mr. Wheeler! How are you this fine day?" The smile Mrs. Herva wore was genuine. The lawyer might have been her favorite customer anyway, for his good looks and the dimpled smile that took her breath away. But beyond that, he was always polite, and he tipped generously.

"Now that I've seen you, Mrs. Herva, how could I be anything but good?" Mrs. Herva's smile grew wider.

"Oh Mr. Wheeler, you always say the sweetest things. I can't imagine why some lady hasn't caught you yet."

He whispered in her ear. "Because you're already married."

She blushed and laughed. "Flattery will get you everything, Mr. Wheeler. Will you be having your usual breakfast today?"

He shook his head. "Not today. I'm looking for your boss. Is he sleeping in again?"

"No, Mr. Ahern's in his office, doing some paperwork. "

Wheeler smiled his thanks and headed towards the small office tucked away near the entrance. He rapped on the door three times with his knuckles.

"Come on in, Jake."

When he entered, he found the owner of the hotel and restaurant seated at his desk, scribbling some numbers in a ledger. Wheeler sat down across from him.

"Wish I was as good as you with figures," Ahern said. His smile froze when he saw Wheeler's expression.

"What is it?"

Wheeler shifted uncomfortably. "We may have a problem."

Ahern put his pen down slowly and clasped his hands. "I know that look. Must be bad."

"You hear about that incident over in The Dalles, Mike? Where some idiots started shooting up a saloon and two young girls got killed?"

"Yeah," Mike said, cautiously. "Weren't they just walking down the sidewalk and hit by stray bullets?"

"That's right. Ed thinks he's got the shooter in his jail right now."

"And how's that a problem for us?" Mike Ahern was using his patient voice. You never could rush Jake Wheeler to tell a story.

"Because the shooter says he's Kid Curry."

"God damn it." Ahern's voice was quiet. "God damn it."

"There's more. We know this man."

"Oh good," Mike said. "It only gets better. Who is it?"

"Fred Philpott of Minneapolis, Minnesota. Remember him?"

"God damn it!" Ahern slammed his fist hard on his desk, sending papers wafting to the floor. He got up and started pacing.

"You saw him?"

"Yeah."

"He recognize you?"

"Oh yeah. Just about filled his pants."

"What are we going to do about this? And what's he doing around here anyway? I thought him and that girl were going back to Minnesota and get married."

"He tells me they did go back to Minnesota. Only she met somebody she liked better. Now she's settled down in some place called Winona with a dairy farmer husband. Fred figured there wasn't much for him in Minnesota after that, so he drifted west again. After a couple years trying to make a living and failing miserably, he fell in with some grifters, started hustling. Someone noticed – again – that he fit Kid Curry's description, and he figured, might as well use that reputation to make some real money."

"How could he do that? He can't shoot worth a damn."

"He didn't have to shoot. He just wrapped himself in your reputation and never had to draw a gun. All he ever did was fake the stance and look mean, kind of the way you're looking right now."

Ahern stopped pacing long enough to glare at his friend.

"Yeah, just like that," Wheeler said.

"He can't be getting along so good if somebody thinks he killed two young girls."

Wheeler ran his hands through his hair. "That's the second part of the problem. He thinks he may have done just that."

"May have? What do you mean, may have? And how do you know all this anyway?"

Wheeler's expressive mouth twisted into a wry smile. "My reputation preceded me. Ed Eberly came and got me up in the small hours because Kid Curry wanted a criminal defense attorney."

"Damn it. I knew it. I just knew it. Why do I even bother to ask?"

The two friends were quiet for a moment.

"Did he do it?"

"He was involved in a scam that went south. You know what can happen when you mix amateurs with money, whiskey and guns. There was a lot of drinking, a lot of name-calling, and then a lot of shooting. He says he definitely fired off a few shots, but so did the other men, and they were as liquored up as he was. Bullets flying in every direction . . . Hard to say who killed those girls. Could've been any of them. "

Ahern sat on the desk in front of his friend. "Could've been him."

"Yeah. I guess so. No way to know for sure."

"You sure it's a good idea to represent him, Jake?"

Wheeler leaned back in the chair, fingers laced behind his head. "Don't see how I can refuse, Mike. It's a big case with a famous defendant. No lawyer worth his fee would turn it down. But I sure don't know right now what I'm going to do to get him off. It's not like I can go to court and say, I know he's not Kid Curry, because I'm really Hannibal Heyes, and the real Kid Curry is currently operating the hotel all the witnesses will be staying at."

"For Christ's sake, keep your voice down, will you? The way our luck's running, he's probably telling Eberly right now that you're Hannibal Heyes."

"He's not. We had a little chat about that, too. He's not going to say anything because he knows nobody's going to believe him."

"I hope you're right, Jake. We've got it good in this town. And I sure as hell don't want to go on the run again. "

"Me neither. That's the other reason why I need to represent him. I'll know everything that's going on, and I can keep control of the situation."

"You better be right about that, Jake, or we're going to lose everything we've built here in Astoria. All three of us will be going to prison together."

"You don't have to worry about that at least, Mike. You and me'd go to prison for twenty years. He'd probably hang."

"That's real reassuring, Jake. I feel a whole lot better." Ahern straightened up and looked at his friend. He could almost see the wheels in the lawyer's mind turning.

"What's next for him?"

Wheeler stood up. "He'll be arraigned this afternoon. I'll found out then exactly what the charges are. But I already got a pretty good idea what they're going to be. I'll bet you do, too."

"Yeah. I think so." He shook his head as if to clear it. "Let me buy you breakfast, Jake. You've got a busy day ahead."

"No, thanks, Mike. I'm too tensed up to eat. I'll just grab some coffee and head back to my office. Got a lot to do before the arraignment."

As Wheeler went to leave, Ahern put a palm on the door, keeping it closed. Wheeler turned back in surprise.

"Jake. Just how hard do you plan to defend him?" Ahern's expression was thoughtful.

"What are you talking about, Mike? I always work hard to defend my clients. You know that." He sounded insulted.

"Just this." Ahern's voice was quiet. "There's a lot of feeling about the murder of those two girls. Once word gets out that Kid Curry's in jail here, and he's charged with killing them, an awful lot of people might want to take the law into their own hands. If Fred hangs, legally or not, you and me are safe."

"Jed." Wheeler almost whispered. Ahern's eyes widened in surprise; it had been years since they'd used each other's real names. It was too easy to slip, when you never knew who could be listening.

"I've got to do my best to save him. Everyone knows I work hard for my clients. If I got lazy with Fred, or made mistakes, I'd draw attention that I don't want."

Ahern and Wheeler looked at each other for a long moment. "Guess we're damned if you do, and we're damned if you don't. Things don't seem to change that much for us, do they, Heyes?"

Wheeler's small smile didn't reach his eyes. "You know the old saying, Kid. The more things change, the more they stay the same." As he left, Ahern closed the door slowly behind him. There sure were a lot of ways this situation could blow up in their faces. But there was nothing he could do about it now.

Opening the door again, he stood for a moment, watching the people coming and going, his staff serving breakfast efficiently while customers came and went. The place looked better than good. He and Heyes had rich, peaceful lives here. He liked where he was, and he liked who he had become.

He knew he couldn't allow anyone or anything to threaten what they'd achieved. Whatever he had to do to keep this life, to keep him and Heyes safe, he would do. Even if was something ugly. And if it was necessary that Heyes never know about it, well, that was just the way it had to be.


	4. Chapter 4

It was almost 2:00pm when Jacob Wheeler arrived at the jail. He saw a large, noisy crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, spilling from the front of the building onto the street. Damn. He knew it meant that word had gotten out about the celebrity prisoner. He'd expected that, but it didn't mean he had to like it. He was used to defending unpopular people. Luckily, Ed Eberly was a conscientious, honest man. Not the best judge of character, perhaps – after all, he was one of Eberly's best friends. But Wheeler didn't think highly of Eberly's deputies. Astoria was a seaport. Clever young men got involved in the shipping or fishing industries, where they could make some serious money. Those who couldn't settled for law enforcement.

He had to weave his way through the people standing along the sidewalk. Some weren't so willing to let him pass quietly.

"Well, lookie who's here, boys. Mr. Lawyer fancy pants again. You the one who wants to let a murderer roam our streets, Wheeler?"

Of course. It had to be the Corkill boys. Big, strapping Peter, and his younger brother, Paul. Both lumberjacks, both big as the trees they cut down, and both number than a box of rocks.

"Howdy, Peter, Paul. You really want everyone here to know you're interested in my pants?" Several people laughed. Peter and Paul only frowned. They weren't smart enough to understand the remark; they did realize they were being laughed at.

"You think you're so clever, Wheeler." Paul said.

Wheeler stopped and smiled. "Why, yes, Paul, I do."

At that moment, Deputy Ferris pushed his way out. "Mr. Wheeler. Sheriff's waiting for you." He frowned at the crowd gathering around the door. "You all can move on now. Mr. Wheeler's got business here."

"Business with the devil!" someone called out.

"Back off!" shouted Ferris. "Or you can get a real up-close look at the prisoner from another cell." Wheeler squeezed inside past the big deputy. He sighed with relief when the door was closed and locked behind him.

"Christ, Ed! Looks like half the population of Astoria's out there."

Sheriff Eberly looked grim. "And the other half's around the courthouse. That's why I called in these fellas" – he indicated armed five men standing around the stove "to help us out. We're going to need a bodyguard to get there and back."

Taking off his hat, Wheeler said, "I heard the newsboys flagging an extra edition. I didn't have to buy one to know what it was about."

"No," said Eberly. "Word got out somehow."

"You know how," Wheeler said. "Somebody talked." He glanced over at Ferris. The deputy met his eyes without smiling.

"Can I see my client?"

"Sure, sure, just as soon as we search you." Wheeler spread his feet wide and held his arms out to each side, not trying to hide his discomfort. Ferris' expression dared him to comment. Wheeler stared straight ahead and ignored the groping. He had a bad feeling that the body search would be more pleasant than the arraignment.

Patchy sunlight filtered into the cell where Fred Philpott sat. He paid no attention to it. It was all the same to him. There was nothing to do, but he didn't mind that. He didn't feel like doing much of anything anyway, except maybe having a drink. Or several. Drinking drowned out the recurring thoughts that never let him rest, and he was doing entirely too much thinking right now. Jail wasn't so bad; he'd bounced in and out of enough jails the last few years that he was almost comfortable there. At least they fed you, and people pretty much left you alone. One time he'd gotten sixty days for disorderly conduct, drunkenness, fighting, and a few other charges he couldn't remember, and that had been okay. Of course, he'd been using his real name then, and nobody had connected him with any outstanding warrants.

But now . . . he really, really wanted a drink. His head ached and his heart was pounded. It seemed like the thirst was getting worse lately. He needed a few drinks to sleep, and he needed a few drinks to wake up. And then he'd have a few drinks to calm his nerves, and make him forget how he'd wrecked his life. Thinking of that reminded him, again, how much he wanted – no, needed – a drink right now. His hands felt funny. He looked at them and was mildly surprised to see they were shaking. He told his hands to stay still and steady, but they wouldn't obey. When he heard the big door to the cell area creak open, he put his hands into his armpits. Footsteps clicked on the concrete floor, but he didn't look up.

"Mr. Curry." No response. The man acted like he hadn't heard. Wheeler tried again, louder. "Mr. Curry." Still nothing. Shaking his head, Wheeler reached over to a lamp hanging on the wall and lit it.

"Finally awake, I see." Wheeler pulled a three-legged stool over and placed it next to the cell. He sat down carefully – the legs were a little uneven, and he had to take a moment to be sure it wouldn't tip over.

"How are you this fine afternoon, Mr. Curry?" Finally, the prisoner looked up. Wheeler got his first good clear look at Philpott's face. A lifetime of lying and hiding his true feelings served him well in that moment. He was shocked at the changes he saw. Five years earlier, Fred Philpott had been an average healthy young man. Not particularly handsome, but not bad-looking either.

But now . . . Wheeler noted the redness of the bloated face, the broken veins on the nose, the watery eyes. . . he looked wasted. Like a drunkard hankering for the next drink. He was so caught up in this surprise that the sound of Philpott's voice startled him.

"I wonder if you could do something for me, Mr. Wheeler."

"Depends on what it is."

Philpott turned slowly to face him. "I wonder . . . I could really use a drink right about now. You got a flask on you, by any chance?"

Wheeler just stared. He felt terrible. For a moment, he wished he wasn't always right.

"No, Fred. Sorry. Even if I had one when I came here today, I got searched before they let me back here. They'd've taken it from me."

"Oh," said Philpott. "I guess that makes sense."

Philpott was quiet for a moment. "Do you think you can get me some whiskey later?"

"I don't know. I can ask the sheriff if he'll let me bring some in. How's that?"

Philpott was looking at his hands. Wheeler noticed how they trembled.

"It's alright, I guess. Sometimes I get the shakes, you know?" Wheeler nodded. "Seems like the only thing that helps stop the shakes is some whiskey."

"How much whiskey do you drink, Fred?"

"I don't know exactly. I just drink because I like it. Tastes better than water, after all." He smiled slightly at his joke. "Besides, you can get typhoid from bad water. Whiskey's a lot safer."

"I suppose." Both men were quiet.

"Fred." Philpott looked at him. "Do you know what's going to happen this afternoon?"

He smiled. "It's going to rain?"

"That's everyday in Oregon. No, I'm talking about court. You're going to be arraigned in about half an hour. Do you know what that means?"

"Yeah. I been in jail before." Wheeler's eyebrows went up.

"Besides Montana?" he asked. Philpott nodded.

"Under your own name, or other names?"

"Lots of names," he said. "But now I'm Kid Curry."

"Uh huh. Well, just in case you've forgotten, you'll be asked your name and where you're from. Then the judge will read the charges against you, and you'll plead not guilty."

"Why not guilty? Maybe I did it."

"Don't you know?"

"Sometimes I don't remember what I did. It's kind of funny. Sometimes I wake up in different places, and I don't know how I got there, or what happened, or anything."

Wheeler was getting a real bad feeling.

"Did you remember any more about what happened at that saloon in The Dalles?"

"I remember parts of it," Philpott said. "I was playing cards. There was a piano player. And like I told you before, I did fire my gun a few times, when things started getting lively. Don't remember exactly why, though. And after all that happened, I woke up in a boathouse right by the Columbia River, and then I puked. That's about it."

The bad feeling settled in Wheeler's stomach. He felt sick. He looked at his reluctant client, and thought to himself, I'm looking at a dead man.

"Don't talk about this with anybody but me. Don't even talk in your sleep," Wheeler told him. "Regarding the plea, we always plead not guilty at the arraignment. The whole process will take about five minutes. Then we'll come back here, and you're going to try real hard to remember what happened at that saloon. Are we clear?"

"If I do, could you maybe get me some whiskey then?"

"I'll ask. No promises, though. It's not usual procedure."

"Please. Just . . . please. I need a drink."


	5. Chapter 5

Ed Eberly was pacing and looking at the clock in his office. If Wheeler wasn't done in about two minutes, he'd have to go in there and drag him and Curry out. Judge Apted didn't like to be kept waiting.

Just then, he heard three raps on the door. Ferris got up and reached for the heavy iron key. He pulled the door open, and Wheeler stepped out quietly. He looked troubled.

"Christ, Jake, you were in there long enough. Couldn't you get his life story after the arraignment?"

"Sorry for the delay, Ed. He's ready to go now."

"We're going to have to be careful, Jake. I want you to wear this." He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a gunbelt.

"Oh no, Ed. No no no. I'm an officer of the court. I can't go in there wearing a six-gun."

"Listen to me, Jake. No, really, listen for a minute." Eberly knew he'd have a hard time convincing his friend to wear a gun. He'd been hunting with the man several times, knew he could handle a rifle just fine. But, in the four years since Wheeler had come to town, he'd never seen him touch a six-gun, much less wear one. Wheeler claimed that his weapons were his silver tongue and his law books, and that everyone was much more comfortable, and safe, when he defended himself with those weapons.

"Jake, we got to make a show of force. There's some angry folks out there, and we cannot, absolutely cannot, let this situation get out of control. We could have a lynch mob on our hands."

"Ed, no. You've got these men here. You don't need me. Besides, I'm more likely to shoot myself in the foot with that thing than I am to help you."

Eberly saw that his friend was wearing the same "I won't" face that his four-year-old son sometimes wore. Damn. He needed all the competent guns he could get, and Wheeler had a tough core that his genial personality couldn't hide. He'd seen Wheeler face down bigger, stronger men without flinching. Add a pistol, and he'd be more effective at defusing a bad situation than all the newly-sworn-in deputies combined. He opened his mouth to argue, but stopped when he noticed what looked like fear in his friend's eyes.

"Alright, Jake. I won't press you on this now. But I may later on, if things get ugly."

Wheeler tried not to look too relieved. He knew he was a good actor when need be, but he wasn't at all sure that he could pretend to be an amateur with a six-gun.

"Thanks, Ed. Now that that's settled, we might as well go to court. I think we're all going to be happier once this is over."

"I hope you're right, Jake. Because we've got a long way to go before this is all over."


	6. Chapter 6

"Did he say anything about the shooting?" Maarit Kaukonen said as she brought the plate of dinner rolls around the table.

Jacob Wheeler could only shake his head. His mouth was full.

"Sorry, Jake. Bad timing."

He swallowed and smiled. "Not a problem, Maarit. No, he didn't. And he wouldn't anyway, at an arraignment. The judge just asks a few questions, and the prosecutor reads off the charges. The judge decides whether or not the accused gets bail, and how much it is. Defense pleads, and that's the end until the jury selection starts."

"He's getting bail?" said Timo Kaukonen, as he accepted rolls from his sister. "I can't believe that anybody would let Kid Curry out on bail."

"You've got that right, Timo. No bail. He went straight back to the jail where he's sitting right now, though he's not getting a fine meal like this. You've outdone yourself again, Maarit."

"It's hard to spoil beautiful salmon like this, Jake. It's very like what we had in Finland. But I do thank you for your kind words. "

Wheeler pointed the tip of his knife at Mike Ahern, who was giving his fiancee the benefit of what Jake called "the big blue-eyed look."

"Mike, she is going to spoil you rotten. You are one lucky man."

"Don't I know it," Ahern said. "Sweetheart, why don't you leave that for now and sit down with us. You're going to miss your own cooking." He got up and pulled out a chair for her. He kissed her lightly on the forehead as she settled into her chair. The other men just grinned.

"Not a word out of you two. Ain't nothing wrong when a man kisses his future wife." He changed the subject fast, before his best friend could think of something clever to say.

"Jake." Wheeler noticed the changed tone. "What exactly did they charge him with?"

Wheeler put down his utensils. "Everything but truancy. The new stuff from the shooting in The Dalles, plus all sorts of armed robbery in Wyoming."

"It's been years since the Devil's Hole Gang was robbing," Timo said. "Hasn't the statute of limitations run out?"

"Not in Wyoming. There's no statute of limitations there. If you stole an apple when you were twelve years old, you could still be charged and convicted when you're ninety. He's unlikely to see much sunlight for the next 20 years at least, if he really is Kid Curry."

"There's still doubt about that?" Maarit asked. "Everybody says he's Kid Curry. Has he denied it?"

"No, he hasn't. "

"Then, why? . . "

"Because he can't prove he is, anymore than we can prove he isn't. And there's nobody here can identify him for sure. "

Timo was resting his chin on his hands. He looked thoughtful. "Didn't there used to be some famous sheriff in Wyoming who'd run with that gang and then gone straight? Travell, Trevor, something like that? Could he do it?" He was gazing at the wall and failed to notice how both Mike and Jake tensed up. No one spoke for a long moment.

"Uh-huh," Ahern finally said. "Used to be. Man named Lom Trevors."

"Yeah, that's the name. Used to be, you said? What happened to him? He go back to outlawing?"

"No, not at all. Once he became an honest man, he stayed honest."

Timo looked up. The other two men were looking at each other but not speaking. It seemed like they were having a conversation without words.

"What happened to Sheriff Trevors?" Maarit asked.

Wheeler answered. "His heart gave out. Just walking down the street of his town one day about five years ago, and he keeled over. Dropped dead on the street."

"How sad," Maarit said. "He must have been a remarkable man, to give up outlawing like he did and go completely straight."

"He was," Ahern said.

"You knew him, Mike?" Timo asked.

Wheeler shot a quick glance at his friend. Ahern hesitated before he answered.

"I met him a couple times. I, ah . . . I wouldn't say I knew him."

"Huh. Well, I guess the bottom line is, Eberly can't get him to identify your client. Is there any dessert, pikku sisko?"

"Help me clear the dishes, and you can have some dessert. Deal?" Timo smiled at his little sister, and together, they moved to clear dishes and take them into the kitchen.

Left alone with Wheeler for the moment, Ahern opened his mouth to speak. Wheeler raised his hand and silently mouthed "later." The men sat with folded hands until the others came back.

"Here it is," said Maarit. "You call it blueberry pie in English. I could teach you the Finnish word for it, but I think you would break a tooth."

"Everything you make tastes good in Finnish and English, sweetheart," Ahern said. He reached up and tucked a few stray pale blond hairs behind her ear. Wheeler sat back, grinning. It felt good to see his friend so happy. Talking about Lom had reminded him of the years they'd wasted chasing the amnesty dream. Even though the amnesty had never come through, they'd managed to leave the outlaw life behind. Now they both had good lives in this booming town on the Pacific Ocean, as far west as they could go without getting their feet wet.

Mike had a thriving business, a beautiful and kind fiancee, and good prospects for a happy life. Wheeler frowned a little as he recalled the troublesome client sitting in Ed Eberly's jail right now, the man he was obligated to defend. The same man who could destroy everything he and Mike had. He knew he had to protect his friend now as much as he had when they were children. No one could be allowed to threaten his happiness or well-being. Especially not Fred Philpott.


	7. Chapter 7

"There's one thing that's bothering me about all this, Jake," Ahern said. He and Wheeler were going out for an after-dinner beverage, the kind that the teetotalling Finnish siblings didn't provide.

"Only one thing?"

"Yeah. Well, no. There's a few other things we need to talk about, but I thought I'd save that till we had a little privacy."

"Good thinking." Wheeler said. "What's the one thing you want to talk about now, where anybody could overhear what we're saying and jump to all sorts of reasonable conclusions?" Wheeler ignored the glare Ahern gave him.

"Why isn't he being extradited right now back to The Dalles to face charges there?"

Ahern could barely see Wheeler's face in the pale light cast by the streetlamps. The typical mix of fog and light rain made the evening seem colder than it should be. Not for the first time, he thought of the crisp cold sunlight of Wyoming and Colorado, and how pleasant it felt to breathe in the sharp scent of snow. He resolutely pushed that thought away. No use thinking about the things you couldn't have.

"Publicity. Notoriety. The D.A. claims he wants a change of venue because he couldn't get a fair trial. Feelings are just too hot there."

"And feelings aren't hot here?"

"All the rain cools things down here, I guess." Wheeler smiled at his own small joke.

"I heard about that bunch this afternoon. I think people are already pretty hot about him killing those two girls. They might figure justice is served a lot quicker with a rope."

"No," said Wheeler. "I don't think so. That was just a few hotheads, mainly those numbskull Corkill brothers and their so-called friends. Eberly can handle them. "

"I hope you're right, Jake. Because I don't feel good about any of this."

"Come on, Mike! You're turning into a worrywart in your old age. Nothing's going to happen." Ahern didn't feel comforted. He'd heard his partner make similar confident statements too many times.

The quiet of the damp night diminished as the men approached the saloon. Bright lights and music spilled from the windows and doorway. Cigar smoke mingled with the moisture in the air and added a bitter note to the humidity. A few exiting men brushed past them as they entered the crowded room. Wheeler noticed an available space alongside the bar and pointed. Ahern followed. Both men rested their forearms on the bar and stood with one foot on the brass rail in an identical posture, almost shoulder to shoulder.

Ahern glanced around the room. He'd lost count of how many saloons he and his partner had visited since they were both skinny teens, trying to act like they belonged in the places where men gathered. Even though the decoration and the clientele changed, they all tended to blur together in his memory.

Wheeler caught the bartender's eye and held up two fingers.

"The usual, gents?"

"The usual, Sam. " The bartender hurried to fill glasses for them. He always took care with these two; serve 'em quick and with a smile, and they tipped big. They chatted friendly-like when things were slow, and let him be to do his job when he was busy. Definitely his kind of customers, unlike the noisy crowd gathering in the back corner. Now them boys, he could do without. He served a generous pour and carefully placed the glasses in front of them. He watched them take sips and sigh with satisfaction.

"Sam, you're spoiling us." Mike said. He tipped the glass back and took another appreciative swallow.

"Only the best for you gents."

"Keep this up, Sam, and we'll keep haunting this place till you're sick of the sight of us."

The bartender shook his head, causing his extravagant handlebar mustache to twitch.

"Not a chance of that happening. We're always happy to have men like you come here. And believe you me, I'd rather have you two here once a week than some other fellows every night." He gestured toward the back, where voices were getting louder. Ahern and Wheeler turned to look over their shoulders, just in time to see poker chips flying and men noisily pushing back chairs, ready for a fight. Both men winced and turned back to the bar. Maybe coming here wasn't such a great idea after all.

"See what I mean?"

"Yeah." As Sam started to walk away, Wheeler remembered.

"One more thing, Sam." The bartender turned back. Wheeler pulled a silver flask from his jacket's pocket.

"Can you fill this up for me with some whiskey?" The bartender took the flask and turned away, carefully pouring amber liquid into the container.

"You planning to be thirsty on the way back home?" Ahern asked, surprised. Wheeler had a dandy liquor cabinet in his parlour.

"Nope. It's not for me. Thanks, Sam." He pocketed the flask securely.

"Who then?"

"My client. He seems to have a powerful thirst."

"Eberly 's going to let you give that to him?"

"If I ask sweetly and nicely, probably."

Ahern sipped his whiskey. "You think your client wants a drink that bad?"

Wheeler kept his voice low. "I think he does. In fact, I imagine he's having a very hard time without it."

"Oh," Ahern said. "Oh!"

"Yeah. I don't know everything he's been doing since we last saw him, but I'd say he spent an awful lot of that time crawling inside a bottle. "

"That's a real shame. I really thought he and that Penny girl were gonna get together and that things'd work out for them."

Wheeler was watching the action reflected in the big mirror that hung over the bar. "Me, too. I think he couldn't let go of his ill-gotten fame and settle down so easy."

"Anybody who'd let a girl like that go has got to be six kinds of fool."

"At least," agreed Wheeler. "His fondness for whiskey didn't help matters."

"I guess it wouldn't." The noise in back grew louder. Both men turned to watch, glasses in hands, as a fight broke out, fists and faces connected, and chairs were thrown. Bouncers rushed in to break up the fight. It was only a few minutes before several patrons were escorted unwillingly through the batwing doors and ejected into the drizzling rain that enveloped Astoria in a wet embrace. As relative quiet descended over the remaining customers, the two men returned to contemplating their glasses.

"Well, so much for tonight's entertainment." Wheeler threw some coins onto the bar.

"Leaving already?"

"Uh-huh. Got to check in on my thirsty client. I'd invite you to come along, but the sight of you might just send him into a state of shock."

Ahern drained his glass. "He's got to figure that I'm around here somewhere. Maybe I should just walk with you over to the jail and then walk you home."

"Thank you, mother, but I don't need a chaperone. And I don't know what he knows, or thinks he knows, but I aim to find out." He put some coins onto the bar. "Thanks, Sam. You have a good night now."

"Same to you, gents. And you be careful out there, Mr. Wheeler."

Ahern put one hand on his friend's shoulder and guided him back to the bar. "Any special reason he should be careful, Sam?"

The bartender gestured for the two men to come closer.

"That little ruckus you saw just now?" Wheeler and Ahern listened. "Them boys come from up-river. They heard about who's sitting in jail, and they know why's he's sitting there. You might want to watch yourself, Mr. Wheeler."

"Aw, Sam, don't say such things. Mr. Ahern is a timid soul and worries about his fellow man. You don't want to upset him."

"Thanks, Sam," Ahern said. He pulled out his wallet and withdrew some bills, which he gave to Sam. "Keep your ears to the ground, will you?"

The bartender quickly stuffed the bills in his vest pocket. "Course I will, sir. I wouldn't want anything to happen to good customers like you."

"Keep that in mind, Sam. And good night." Sam watched them snake their way through the throng of men jostling along the bar and at the door. They looked like they could handle themselves alright. Two of the toughest men he knew. Not for the first time, he wondered how a lawyer and a businessman got to be so tough. He was just glad he got along with them. Anybody who didn't could be in for some big trouble.


	8. Chapter 8

Something felt wrong. Both men sensed it. Too many years of running and hiding had made them sensitive to trouble before they heard or saw anything tangible. Neither man wore a gun at his waist anymore; a tied-down weapon drew the wrong kind of attention, and their goal was to blend in with the law-abiding folks. The weapons they carried now were more discreet. Ahern patted his pocket, reassured by the weight of his gun. Beside him, his old friend was checking the Remington that Ahern had insisted he wear, concealed in a shoulder holster under his suit jacket. He glanced from side to side, trying to figure out why he had that prickling sensation between his shoulders.

"Damn fog's worse than pea soup," muttered Wheeler. "There could be a posse on our tail right now, and we couldn't see a damn thing."

"Keep your voice low," Ahern said. "Sound carries a long way in this stuff."

The men were suddenly aware of shouts piercing through the moisture in the air. They stopped to listen.

"The jail, you think?" Wheeler asked. Ahern pulled out his gun and checked the chamber.

"Where else?" Satisfied, he replaced his gun in the holster. "Could be the Devil's Hole Gang coming for your client."

"There's no Devil's Hole Gang left to come for him, or have you forgotten?"

"I haven't forgotten." The distant voices got louder. Ahern glanced at his old partner. He couldn't believe it; Jake looked like he'd just won the lottery.

"What're you so happy about?"

"Oh, just that it seems like old times. Me and you, guns at the ready, walking straight into trouble, even though we know any sensible man would turn on his heels right now, go home and go to bed and pretend he didn't know there was a riot about to start. Makes me feel young again." Ahern watched in disbelief as Wheeler picked up his pace. It almost looked like he was skipping.

Wheeler stopped and looked back at his old partner. "Well, come on, Mike. If we're going to do something stupid, let's do it together, like we always done."

"Sure. Why change now?" And the two men walked briskly towards the sound of loud voices echoing through the misty night.


	9. Chapter 9

Deputy Ferris couldn't believe his luck. Everything was nice and calm while Sheriff Eberly was around. No sooner did he go home for the night and leave Ferris in charge, then a bunch of drunken fools come by, saying they want to meet Kid Curry. If they'd been sober, he might have let them in, one at a time, for a small fee, of course. A deputy's salary wasn't much. You had to supplement it when you could.

Three years in the law business had taught him there was a big difference between a few happy drunks and a drunken mob. This group felt dangerous. He was pretty sure they wanted to do more than just look at his notorious prisoner. He knew he had to keep them out.

But there was only one of him outside, with his one gun, and just one solitary armed temporary deputy inside, to guard the prisoner. Surrounding him were seven drunks, all loggers and fishermen by the looks of them, and each one of them individually bigger than Ferris. He had no doubt they were heavily armed as well. Complaints and stupid remarks were turning into threats. They were closing in on Ferris slowly, like a wolf pack. Ferris retreated, until he felt the front door to the jail against his back. He wondered if he could, sudden-like, just pull the door open and slide inside. If he could do that, he could maybe barricade the door with Deputy Bennett until reinforcements came. How he'd send for those reinforcements once he was trapped inside with Bennett and Kid Curry, he wasn't quite sure.

A finger poked his chest. "Maybe you ought to step aside, Deputy." The man's beery breath steamed in the night air.

"Yeah," called another. "We don't need no other guests for this party 'cept Kid Curry."

"What kind of party?" asked Ferris. His voice cracked. The men seemed to think that was hilarious.

"Boy," the first man said, "If you gots to ask, you don't needs to know."

Suddenly three shots rang out and three hats flew off three drunken heads. The mob fell to the ground in shock. Men looked around wildly for the source of the gunshots. Ferris dropped to his knees and pulled his gun. Eberly's temporary deputy Bennett pushed the door open and stepped out, pointing a steady shotgun at the shaken group huddling in the mud.

"Can anyone join this party?" For once, Ferris was glad to hear Jacob Wheeler's voice.

"Don't none of you boys move a muscle!" Bennett called out. "Mr. Wheeler! Come on over careful-like!"

Ferris saw Wheeler and Mike Ahern approach with guns drawn. They looked like they meant business. One of the loggers noticed the deputy's distraction and rolled over to pull out his weapon. Ahern swung sideways and fired without aiming. The gun flew out of the logger's hand, and he shouted in pain, cradling his bleeding hand against his body. Bennett could hardly believe his own eyes.

"Whoo-eee! Mr. Ahern!" Bennett said. "I ain't never seen anything like that! Where'd you learn to shoot that way?"

"Hotel management school," said Wheeler. He pointed a gun at the men cowering in the mud. "Keep your hands flat on the ground where we can see them, boys."

Ferris got up slowly, looking in disbelief at the scene around him – the mob laying in the muddy street, sobering up quickly from the wet and the shock; Wheeler's steely eyes somehow watching everything, and his steady hand on his weapon; and Ahern, straightening up, acting more embarrassed about his fine shooting than proud. He saw Ahern look almost apologetically at Wheeler, and Wheeler's mouth tightened into a straight line.

"Just a lucky shot," Ahern said. "I doubt I could do it again."

"Well, I'm sure glad you did it at least once," Bennett exclaimed. "Damndest thing I ever did see. Was it you that shot off their hats, too? Wait'll I tell Sheriff Eberly!"

"Better to focus now on what needs doing." Wheeler said. "Don't you want to take up a collection from these fine citizens?" Ferris and Bennett looked confused.

"Their guns. Collect their guns and any other weapons they might have."

"Oh. Right. Yes, sir." Bennett moved into the street and started picking up a variety of guns, bowie knives, and brass knuckles. Ferris watched from the sidewalk. He didn't like taking orders from civilians.

"What are you planning to do with these men, Deputy," asked Ahern. He was standing rock steady, pointing his pistol at the cowering men.

"Ah. . . well, normally I'd lock 'em up overnight, till they cooled down and sobered up. But maybe it's not a good idea to put them back there with Curry. Maybe I should just collect their weapons and send them off with a warning."

"Good thinking. Don't make no sense putting them back with the person they were threatening." He stepped over the pile of weapons that Bennett had accumulated and turned to address the mob. He waited for Ferris to make the announcement. He waited some more. Nothing. Ferris looked like he was in shock. Ahern sighed to himself. They weren't making deputies like they used to.

"You heard the Deputy," he called out. "Get out of here. And stay away." The men slowly pushed themselves to their feet, mumbling what Wheeler thought sounded like threats. Some shot dirty looks at him. Considering how much time they'd spent in the flooded street, rolling around in mud and horse droppings and God knows what else, he figured dirty looks were justified. Some looked like they might still have some fight in them. One, braver or even more stupid than his friends, made an abortive lunge for the pile of weapons Bennett had accumulated. Ahern noticed and fired what Bennett later called "a shot across the bow", hitting the gun and causing it to spin out of reach as the man grabbed for it.

"You heard the man. Get out of here now." Ahern's voice was calm. Finally, the hooligans pushed themselves to their feet. One, clutching his bleeding hand, called back.

"This ain't over. I know who you are."

"Get out and stay out. Or you'll be getting to see Kid Curry from another cell," Ferris said. All four men watched as the mob stumbled out of sight.

"Well, that was fun," Wheeler said. "You think I can see my client now?"


	10. Chapter 10

"Thanks for coming here so quickly, Doc."

Solomon Cohen, M.D., sneezed. Water dripped from his heavy slicker onto the floor. He pulled a wrinkled hankerchief from a pocket and blew his nose vigorously.

"That's better," Dr. Cohen said. "I admit to being curious, Deputy Ferris. Why did you send Mike Ahern to get me, instead of Dr. Logan or his associates? They've got the contract with Clatsop County." He took off his slicker. More water splattered. Ferris regarded the puddle unhappily. He'd be damned if he'd be the one to mop up that mess before the Sheriff got back.

"It was Mr. Wheeler's idea, Doctor. He wanted you."

Cohen paused. "Jake Wheeler? Why?"

"Don't know for sure, but he said to get you here quick, and nobody else. Probably best if he told you himself. He's in back with the prisoner."

"Huh." Cohen picked up his medical bag. "I guess you better take me back there, then."

Ferris held up his hand. "I have to search you first." At Cohen's scowl, he added, "It's standard procedure. Can't let anybody back there with sharp objects or weapons."

"Just for your information, Deputy, I'm carrying a medical kit. It contains many sharp objects that could be construed to be weapons, but which are, as you so quaintly put it, 'standard' for a physician. And I happen to be here in my function as a physician. Unless you want to palpate my privates to see what circumcision does to a man, you'll open that locked door and stand aside, so I can do my job."

Ferris felt his face get hot. Cohen moved past him and stood next to the locked door leading to the cells. "We're not getting any younger, Deputy."

Reluctantly, Ferris pulled his key ring out of the desk and opened the door. Damn bossy Jews! Having a celebrity prisoner was making his life miserable. He swung the heavy door open for Cohen and slammed it shut after the doctor was inside. He wished he could just lock it for good and keep Wheeler, Cohen and Kid Curry back there.

Solomon Cohen took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the cell area. The sour smells that greeted him weren't pleasant, but he barely noticed. After 25 years as a physician, he had a high tolerance for unpleasant things.

"Howdy, Sol." Cohen recognized the deep voice of his friend, the lawyer.

"Hello, Jacob. What's happening here, that you need the services of a Jewish doctor?"

Wheeler stepped forward to shake his friend's hand. "I'd like you to examine my client, Sol. He's in a bad way. He's in back."

As Cohen's eyes adjusted to the light, he saw a man in the last cell laying on a cot, in a fetal position facing the wall. He was wrapped in a blanket. Next to his cot were a bucket and some rags. He moved closer and picked up the odors of sickness. The bucket had been used. He entered the cell, and Wheeler moved a stool inside for Cohen. The doctor sat down and reached over to touch the sick man. Wheeler stood by watching.

"I'm Doctor Cohen. Mr. Wheeler sent for me. He tells me you've been ill." The only response was a shiver. He placed a hand on the man's forehead and let it rest there. Cohen glanced up at Wheeler's serious face.

"What do you think is wrong with him, Jake?"

"Bad shakes. Maybe fever. And he's got it coming out of both ends."

"Uh huh. That's not answering my question." He put his hand on the man's shoulder. "How about rolling over on your back, son, so I can examine you. And Jake, get the rest of these lights lit up. I need to see what I'm doing." The man seemed barely aware, but he let Cohen move him. As he settled onto his back, he held his stomach with both hands. Cohen gently pulled one arm loose to feel the man's pulse. He watched the man's face as Wheeler lit every lamp, and Cohen could actually see his new patient.

"What's your name, son?"

"It's Curry, sir," he whispered. "You really a doctor. . ." He didn't trust his vision. He wasn't sure if it was a man or a bear sitting next to him. The shape was large, dark, and hairy.

"I'm really a doctor, Mr. Curry. How are you feeling tonight?"

"I. . . I could really use a drink, sir. Mr. Wheeler, he. . . he said I could maybe have some. . ." the whispered speech was interrupted by trembling, and he clutched his stomach again. Cohen sat back and turned around to face his friend.

"Now I know why you called me instead of Logan."

Wheeler nodded. "I know you've been working with drunks in your clinic, Sol, helping them get off the sauce. Logan wouldn't know what to do here."

"And you think I do? I'm honored." He reached into his medical bag and took out a stethoscope.

"I'm going to listen to your heart and your breathing, Mr. Curry. You just relax and let me do the work."

Wheeler watched his friend examine Fred. Seeing Cohen at work reassured him, a little. Still, he was worried. He tried not to breathe too deeply. The smell of bodily waste was strong. He thought about opening the single window to air the place out some, but it was already chilly. Probably better to keep as much warmth as possible for the prisoner.

"Can you roll over on your side now, Mr. Curry? I want to listen to your breathing." Fred rolled slowly into a side-lying position. Cohen moved his stethoscope around, frowning slightly. When he finished, he smiled at his patient.

"Why don't you relax for a moment, Mr. Curry? I'd like to speak to Mr. Wheeler privately." He stood and replaced the stethoscope in his bag.

"We're going to step aside for a moment, Kid. But we'll be right back. Okay?"

'Kid' looked up. "If you say so, Mr. Heyes." Wheeler saw the doctor's expression change.

"He's been out of his head, too, saying crazy things," Wheeler said. "You wouldn't believe some of the things he's said to me."

"What kind of things?" Cohen saw Wheeler hesitate. "If you're concerned about privileged communication, remember that I'm sworn to the same kind of confidentiality you are."

"It's not that, Sol. I just don't think that it's relevant."

"It might give me some insight into his state of mind."

Wheeler ran one hand through his hair. "I think you got a pretty good idea of that right now."

"I think I do. You and I need to have a little chat with Eberly about providing the proper medical care for Mr. Curry."

Wheeler gestured at his client. Fred had wrapped himself in the blanket again.

"He's been asking for whiskey, so he can think clear and talk to me. You think that would help? "

Cohen sighed heavily. "Maybe for the moment, but he's detoxing from alcohol. Having a drink now would shut down the process. No, I don't recommend it."

"If you say so, Sol. Just wish I could do something to help him get better."

Sol Cohen hit the door to the cell area with his fist.

"Jake. He's a very sick man. Don't expect him to get better." He saw Wheeler's expression change as the meaning of Cohen's statement sunk in. "I'll send my nursing aide over to get him cleaned up and sedated, at least make him comfortable, and maybe we can get a janitor in to clean the cell and air it out. That should help some."

Cohen stepped back as Ferris opened the door and exited quietly. Wheeler was too – what? he wondered. – to follow right away. He stood in the chilly room, unable to analyze his own conflicting emotions and a little reluctant to try. Because, along with the shock of Cohen's dire prognosis, he also felt relief. _I really am a dirt bag_, he thought. _He's my client, and he's sick._ _Still . . . if he died, our problems would be over, and me and Kid would be safe. Especially Kid._

He resolutely pushed that unsettling thought aside. Better to focus on what needed doing. He'd make sure Fred received care, and then he'd go home and try to get some rest. The next few days were going to be tough.


	11. Chapter 11

"And then what happened?"

"Nothing much after that," Deputy Bennett said. "Mr. Wheeler told me to leave a note for the janitor, get him in first thing, to clean up in the cell area. And then he said he was going home to sleep for about a week, and to make sure Eberly – he meant you, Sheriff – forgot where he lived."

"Anything you want to add, Ferris?" Eberly asked.

"No, sir. Me and Bennett here, we just made more coffee for ourselves, since we figured we'd be staying up the rest of the night."

"Don't know if we'd've gone to sleep anyhow, Sheriff," added Bennett. "Me and George, we just couldn't believe what we'd seen. If Mr. Wheeler and Mr. Ahern hadn't shown up like they was the cavalry, there might've been a necktie party here last night, and not a thing we could've done about it. I ain't never seen shooting like that in my life, no way, no how. Kid Curry couldn't do any better himself than Mr. Ahern done. It sure was something!"

Bennett's voice was full of admiration. He acted as if he felt like he was the luckiest man alive to see such entertainment. Maybe he was that lucky, Eberly thought. Who knows what might have happened to his deputies, if they'd had to confront that mob alone?

"Alright, boys," Eberly said. "You two did as well as you could have, given the circumstances. It's a good thing Mike was there to back up Jake, though I never heard tell of him being so good with a gun either. A lawyer's book learning ain't much good facing down a mob."

"He didn't need his book learning or any back-up last night," Ferris said. "He had himself a Remington, and he was handling it like a professional." Eberly looked surprised.

"What are you talking about, Ferris? Jake's always telling me he doesn't believe in carrying a gun. The only time I've ever seen him with any kind of gun was hunting with a rifle, and even then, he let Mike Ahern do the shooting."

"George is right, Sheriff," said Bennett. "Mr. Wheeler, he had hisself a Remington. He handled that pea shooter like he was born with it in his hand. And believe you me, that mob saw it, too. None of them wanted to mess with him at all, no sirree."

"That is interesting," said Eberly. "I think I'm going to have a little talk with Mr. Wheeler about that. See if he's got any other surprises up his sleeve. Meantime, I expect you two to keep your mouths shut. I don't want to see anything about a riot or a mob or fancy shooting in newspapers. If I do, I'll know who talked, and you two'll find yourselves out of a job."

Eberly barely paid attention as both deputies swore, on all they held hold dear, to follow his orders. Now that the immediate crisis had passed, he had a lot to think about. He'd have to organize better, round-the-clock protection for his celebrity prisoner. That prisoner was going to need specialized medical care, too, more than the usual drunk that sobered up in his cell. But, more than anything else, he was thinking about the fancy shooting that had saved his prisoner and his deputies last night. Why had Wheeler lied so consistently about his ability with a pistol? And how and where did Mike Ahern learn to handle a gun like a professional?


	12. Chapter 12

Sunlight pouring in through the bedroom window was ruining Jacob Wheeler's sleep. He rarely bothered to close the curtains when he went to bed; the weather on the Oregon coast was so consistently rainy, day seemed to follow night almost imperceptibly. But now, after a long 24 hours, when he really, really wanted to sleep, the damn sun decided to make an appearance. You can't depend on anything to stay the same anymore, he thought. He pulled the quilts over his head in a vain attempt to block the light, but the heavy covers seemed to be cutting off his oxygen. He poked his head out far enough to expose his mouth and nose, took a few deep breaths, and squinted against the unaccustomed sunlight.

The warmth the covers provided felt good. He stretched a little, enjoying the feel of the smooth sheets against his bare legs. His tired muscles told him to stay where he was, where he could fool himself into thinking he was held close and protected from any manner of harm. His mind, though. . . his active mind rarely shut down long enough for him to get real rest. Insomnia had troubled him for most of his adult life. Was there ever a time when sleep had claimed him easily and cradled him throughout the night, when he didn't worry or plan, or try to escape nightmares? Maybe not since childhood, he thought, when his parents, his brother and sisters, surrounded him in that clapboard cabin out in the middle of nowhere, and he felt safe, so safe, not knowing what lay ahead . . . he sat up abruptly.

Was that a sound coming from the kitchen? He moved quietly to sit on the edge of the bed. Something – someone – was there. The floor creaked. Dishes clattered. He stood and crept on silent feet to the bedroom door, pulling it open without noise. Now he heard a soft voice singing sweet strange words. He knew that voice. He glanced at the wall clock and was surprised to see it was already past 10:00am. He'd slept pretty well after all. He grabbed the robe hanging from the wall hook and put it on, smiling.

When he got to the kitchen, he paused in the doorway to watch her prepare breakfast. The kettle's shrill whistle wound down as she poured boiling water into the tea pot. He smelled the aroma of the green tea as it began to steep. Bamboo baskets, piled three high on the cookstove, emitted clouds of steam. She was singing a Chinese song to herself as she worked, the cadence of the melody and the tonal language rising and falling like a soft breeze. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Wheeler. I wondered if you planned to sleep all day. I was about to have breakfast all by myself." She wiped her hands on a tea towel hanging from the sink.

Jacob Wheeler grinned and straightened up. "Didn't your mother teach you it's better to share?"

She smiled in return. Her long black hair was piled on top of her head in an elaborate arrangement, and she wore an American style skirt and blouse. But her black eyes, pale skin, and the two lacquered pins in her dark hair, were completely Chinese. She saw his tousled bed hair, the beat-up robe, and the whiskers darkening his face, and walked quickly to enter the circle of his arms. He tilted her head back and bent down to kiss her deeply. She sighed, and her body softened against his.

She broke away first, pushing him back gently with her hands on his chest. "No time for that. The day's half over, and you haven't even shaved!"

He rubbed one hand over his unshaven face. "I didn't scratch you, did I?"

"Not too bad," she said. "I've suffered worse than that for love."

His deep, low laugh vibrated through her. "Oh you have, have you? Maybe you should tell me all about it." He tried to pull her close again, but she disentangled herself.

"Oh no you don't, Mr. Wheeler! You have plenty of work to do today. No more laying around! Sit down, and I'll pour you some tea. And I have some steamed buns with pork."

He sat down at the kitchen table and watched her pour the tea into cups and sit down next to him. He moved his chair closer to hers, so that their legs touched.

"I think I'll pass on the buns. You know I usually don't eat breakfast."

"Breakfast, no," she agreed. "But it's past 10 o'clock. Consider this an early lunch. Besides, you like the pork buns almost as much as me."

"True," he said. "And yesterday was a full day."

"I know. I do read the English newspapers, you know." She reached over and took his hand. "The morning editions say the deputies fought off a lynch mob last night."

"Doesn't surprise me."

She looked at him closely. "What doesn't surprise you? That there was a lynch mob, that the newspapers reported it, or that the deputies fought off the mob? I know you don't think much of Ferris, and the papers say he was a hero."

He shrugged. "I know that innocent look," she said. "There's something you're not telling me."

"Many things. What happens between me and my client is absolutely confidential. You know how important it is for a client to know he can trust me."

"Yes. I do. You treat everyone decently, and you're honest. That's a big part of the reason why you're so respected by the Chinese community, love. The other part being that you agree to represent Chinese people at all. No other white lawyer will speak up for us, not at any price."

"Only a damn fool turns down paying clients. "

"Is that why you're representing Kid Curry?"

"Only a damn fool turns down a big-name client."

"It could be dangerous."

"Not when I've got Deputy Ferris to defend me."

She pulled her hand away from his. "Don't joke. I worry about your safety. Kid Curry is a killer. And what if Hannibal Heyes tries to break him out when you're around? Everybody knows how loyal those two are to each other. You could get hurt."

He took both her hands in his. "Hwei-Jean. I can take care of myself. You know that." She was biting her lip. "Really, sweetheart. It's going to be alright. In fact, I can absolutely guarantee that Hannibal Heyes will not break my client out of jail."

"How can you be so sure? You can't know that."

"I do know, sweetheart. I am sure. I can't tell you why. You just have to trust me on this."

"Another one of those many things you can't tell me?" The tone of her voice sharpened. He couldn't give her the answer she wanted to hear, and so he said nothing.

"You know everything about me. But there are so many things I don't know about you. You never talk about your past, or your family. It's all secret, and I'm just supposed to take everything on faith." She laughed, but it wasn't a happy laugh. "Our love is a secret, too. We can never be together in public as other men and women can be, because you're white and I'm Chinese. White men can be with Chinese prostitutes, but never with a Chinese wife."

"Hwei-Jean . . . "

"No," she said, standing up. "Don't say anything. The laws against race-mixing aren't your fault. I know that. And it's my choice to be with you, and to become one of your secrets. I've allowed it to happen. You've never forced me, or lied to me about our having a happy future together. And I respect you for that. I do. Even with all the things you hide from me, and from everybody, you're still an honest man."

He stood slowly as she got up and reached for her shawl hanging on the back of the chair. She wrapped the shawl around her shoulders and smiled through tears that streaked her face.

"I'll stop by your office this afternoon around 3pm and drop off the real estate documents you asked for. If you've got anything that needs to be delivered into Chinatown, I can pick it up then." She walked briskly towards the door, and he followed.

"Hwei-Jean, please don't go. I don't want to see you sad. Or angry. Tell me what can I do."

She didn't turn to look at him. "You could turn Chinese. Or make me white. Nothing more or less than that, I'm afraid." He put both hands on her shoulders and turned her towards him, but she still didn't meet his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm just in a foolish mood this morning. Don't be concerned. I'll see you later." She slipped out of his grasp and left, closing the door quietly behind her.

He stared at the door, but she didn't come back. He realized the room had become dark. For a moment, he thought it was because she had gone. Maybe the poets were right. When the person you loved left you, the world became dark. There was a sudden clap of thunder, and he realized that the poets were as wrongheaded as they'd ever been. It was just another thunderstorm rolling in from the Pacific. So much for the sunny day.

He needed to shave, get dressed, and go to work. Maybe he'd feel better if he could concentrate on work and not think about Hwei-Jean Tan. Today's work would be all about Fred Philpott. Oh yeah, that'd make him feel lots better. He could always go back to bed and hide under the covers like a frightened child. That had worked when he was a small boy. But then, he'd been surrounded by a loving family. Now that was gone, too. Damn it all. This was shaping up to be one hell of a day.


	13. Chapter 13

Mike Ahern did his customary walks through the kitchen and the dining room as the lunch crowd started to thin out. It was an old habit of his. Even in his Devil's Hole days, he'd walk around and visit with the gang members. He played cards, whittled, tended to the stock, had a couple drinks, did whatever it took to make sure everyone knew he was keeping an eye on things. But he did it subtle-like, so nobody's pride got hurt. Same thing as now. It wasn't the first time he thought about how running an outlaw gang had prepared him for running a legitimate business. Not the kind of training he'd recommend to anyone, but it seemed to be serving him well.

Old habits did die hard, though. He never went unarmed in public, although the tied-down gun was a thing of the past. He sure was glad he'd been armed last night, even though Wheeler was real mad with him for shooting. Who knows what might have happened if he hadn't been there to scare off that mob? Those deputies would have been overwhelmed, and Fred would be hung. Not that losing Fred would be such a bad thing. He figured Fred's life would end in a noose pretty soon anyway.

Mike worked his way over to the owner's table, set far enough in the corner to be private, but with a clear view of the dining room. He was surprised to see Jake Wheeler waiting for him there.

"Didn't expect to see you here today, Jake." Ahern sat down across from his friend. A waitress quickly delivered a pot of coffee and filled two cups. Wheeler nodded his thanks.

"You look like hell," Ahern said. "Did you sleep at all last night?" Wheeler just made a face and sipped his coffee. Ahern felt his temper rising.

"Oh, I see. You're willing to sit here and drink my coffee, but you're still not talking to me? If you're planning to give me more hell about what happened last night, you can get your bony ass out of here right now."

Wheeler sighed and wiped his forehead with one hand. "I'm sorry, Mike. I'm not angry with you. I'm angry with myself. That whole mess was my fault."

"Your fault?" Ahern couldn't believe what he was hearing. "How do you figure that?"

Wheeler swiveled in his chair to sit closer to his friend. He kept his voice low. "I never should have let you go to the jail with me. Because I know you'd do anything to prevent a murder, and that would've been murder. It's my fault for letting you go there in the first place."

"You think you could have stopped me? I got your back the same way I always did. The same way you always got mine. That's never going to change."

"I know, Mike. It's just that I shouldn't have gone back to the jail at all. There was nothing I had to do that couldn't wait till daylight, when Ed would be there. No, for some stupid reason I can't remember now, I had to go last night, and I ended up dragging you into that mess. And then you did what you always do, and that only happened because of me. Now there're people who've seen you how good you can shoot. Nothing good can come of this."

"I did what you asked, you know," Ahern said. "I went to The Oregonian office after and told them how Ferris and Bennett saved Kid Curry's life last night."

"I know," Wheeler said. "Thanks. I saw the morning editions. They believed every word you told them."

"'Course they did. Heroic deputies fighting off a mob of killers – just like you thought, it makes for a good story. Nobody in town knows you or me were there."

"Nobody besides two deputies and the mob. And Ed Eberly knows by now. You know Ferris and Bennett must've told him what happened. He'll be wondering where you learned to shoot like that. He'll have questions."

"Let him ask, Jake. I'll tell him that I fired a few shots, and it's just damn lucky I didn't kill anybody. If them deputies thought I was doing some trick shooting, well, they were just plain wrong. He may look at me a little funny, but he's known for me for years now. He'll forget about it soon enough. He's got bigger problems on his mind than me."

Wheeler put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. "I hope you're right about this, Mike. I surely do. Because if you're not, this could be the beginning of the end for us in this town. Everything we've built here could be gone. And then what do we do? Where do we go? I can't go back to living on the run again. I just can't."

"Hey, hey! Stop talking like that, Jake! Everything's going to be okay. You'll see. It's just a bump in the road." Wheeler didn't answer. Mike grasped his arm. "How come you're so down in the dumps today? Did something happen this morning that you're not telling me about?"

Wheeler didn't look up. He wasn't sure he could lie successfully to his best friend, not the way he was feeling.

"No. Nothing happened. I came here straight from home. I haven't even been to the office yet."

"That means you haven't eaten anything since dinner last night, have you?" Ahern looked closely at his friend's drawn face. "You sure you're okay, Jake? You aren't holding out on me, are you?"

Wheeler put his hands in his lap and dredged up a weak smile. "Who, me? Hold out on you? You've always been able to see right through me. I'm just tired, that's all. And yeah, probably hungry too. If your kitchen can put together some beef stew for me, that might help. I do need to get some work done today. Miss Tan's supposed to come by later with some real estate contracts I have to read."

"Don't let her work you too hard, Jake. Remember, she's your assistant, not your boss."

"I know what she is, Mike. Frankly, the real estate stuff is easy. The hard work is detoxing in the jail. Probably doing better today, though, since Sol Cohen's taking care of him now. And no doubt Ed's got a thousand questions for me. I got to think about how I'm going to answer him."

"Just think of it as another con, and you'll do just fine." Wheeler didn't look reassured.

"You'll feel better about everything once you've got some food in you. I'll go get you a bowl of that beef stew, and then I'm going to sit here with you until you eat the whole thing."

"Yes, mother." Ahern smiled and headed back towards the kitchen. Wheeler dropped his own smile. _My whole life is a co_n, he thought. _Kid's right. What's one more? I don't even know who I am anymore._ He reached for his coffee cup. _Weak-ass coffee, and cold to boot._ He drank it anyway.


	14. Chapter 14

Ed Eberly had a headache. No, he corrected himself – he had several headaches, and each one of them had a name. Ferris. Kid Curry. The Corkill brothers. Sol Cohen. The sheriff in The Dalles, and about half the population of that town. Newspaper reporters. Judge Apted. Certain members of the public who were unexpectedly good with a gun . . . the list was getting too long. He knew that headaches were part of his job. It was just that, right now, he had more than usual.

Only one thing bothered him more than any variety of a headache, and that was a mystery. A mystery was like an itch; if you didn't scratch it somehow, it could drive you mad. He was pretty darn sure he knew what had happened outside his jail last night. How it came to happen, though . . . he needed to find out.

Eberly wasn't surprised to find Mike Ahern's office door was open. Ahern had a reputation for being approachable. He saw Ahern standing by the double windows, staring out at the street. Eberly rapped his fingers lightly on the door.

"Mike? You got a few minutes?" Ahern turned around.

"Sure, Ed. I was expecting you."

"'Course you were. You could see me coming down the street and through your front door, couldn't you? You can't miss much with that view."

"Nope, not much," Ahern agreed. "I like to keep an eye on things. Less surprises that way."

"That's a good habit for law enforcement. Maybe I should offer you a job."

"Bad idea. I prefer to avoid jails."

"Unless you plan to start robbing banks, I think I can keep you on the right side of the bars. Mind if I sit down?" Eberly closed the door and settled in the leather chair in front of Mike's large desk.

"Ed, I have no intention of robbing any bank." Ahern sat down in his big chair across from Eberly. "No need to do that, when it's so easy to take your money whenever we play poker."

"That's for damn sure. You've got just about the best poker face I've ever seen, Mike. As long as I've known you, I still can't read you."

Ahern hoped Ed was right about being unable to read him, because he was thinking about a lot of things that he needed to keep secret. Most times, Ahern preferred to get things out in the open and deal with them. Kind of like being in a gunfight, except nobody was left to bleed out on the street.

"What brings you here today, Ed?"

"I want to hire you, Mike."

"What? Is this a joke?" Ahern was honestly shocked. He was pretty sure Ed could read him loud and clear just now.

"No joke, Mike. I want to hire you."

"To be a deputy? No, thanks, Ed. I already got a full-time job here. Anyway, I don't know anything about being a lawman. The only experience I got with law enforcement is posses, and all I got out of that was saddle sores."

"I think I can promise you, no saddle sores. Don't need no posse, since I already got Kid Curry locked up. And I'm not looking to hire you permanent. But now that I know how well you shoot, when hardly anybody else does, I want you to be the ace up my sleeve."

Ahern was shaking his head. "Ed, you got it all wrong. I got off a few lucky shots. I doubt I could do it again."

"Sorry, Mike. Won't do. Won't do at all. I heard all about what happened last night. Every shot you made was precise. You only drew blood one time, when you shot a gun out of someone's hand, and he didn't even need to go to a doctor for that. Jake was waving a pea shooter around, but he never fired, not once. He trusted you enough to get the job done. And you did. And that's why I want to hire you. Not only for your accuracy, but for your restraint. You stopped that necktie party from happening, and nobody got hurt."

Not for the first time, Ahern wished he had a silver tongue like his partner's. Claiming dumb luck wasn't going to work here. He couldn't think of any way to deny what he'd done.

"Alright, Ed. If you say so." Maybe it was better to tell the truth. Or, at least, a little bit of it.

"Good," Eberly said. "Good." He looked . . . relieved, maybe? Well, that's one of us, Ahern thought.

"Just how good are you with a six-gun, Mike?"

"I can usually hit what I aim at."

"But you never carry a gun." An odd look passed over Ahern's face. Eberly frowned.

"I take that back. You never carry a gun that I've seen. Is that right?" Ahern didn't speak, but Eberly guessed the answer.

"Are you carrying a gun right now?"

"Yes."

"Got any more in that desk?"

"Yes."

"Yesterday was the first time anybody's seen you shoot."

"And the last time, too."

"You want to tell me why? Most men like to show off their shooting skills."

" You know why. I don't want anybody coming after me. One of those fellas last night said he was going to do just that."

Eberly looked closely at Ahern's face, trying to see past the calm expression. "When you're working for me, you'll be around armed lawmen at all times. You got nothing to worry about."

Ahern was shaking his head. "That's not it, Ed. I can handle myself just fine, if I have to. I just don't want to be put in a situation where I have to draw on someone who's too stupid or too drunk to back down. It's real easy to kill somebody that way."

"Have you killed somebody that way?"

"I've seen what happens when gunplay starts. Innocent people get killed, like those two young girls in the Dalles."

"Sometimes you got to shoot, Mike, to prevent greater violence, like you did last night. When you faced off with those boys, nobody got hurt. Someone else could've killed them. Instead, you shot hats off. None of my deputies could do that. And you still haven't answered my question."

"I had the advantage of surprise. You only get that once."

"For God's sake, it's not like somebody is going to call you out! I don't understand why you think this is such a bad idea."

"Because you seem to think fancy shooting is going to solve all your problems, and I'm here to tell you, it won't. And then I'd have a reputation. You know what happens to someone with a reputation? It's a challenge for every gunman out there who wants to make a name for himself. I could end up on the wrong side of the bars after all, if I have to shoot down some fool who comes looking for me."

"Mike, you got to know, I want you for your good judgment as much as your shooting. The fact that you're fighting me so hard on this only makes me see how much good you could do for me. I don't want some gun-happy fool backing me up; I want somebody who's only going to shoot when it's absolutely necessary."

"In my world, shooting is never necessary."

"If it's never necessary, then why do you carry a gun?"

"Self-defense. I carry money sometimes – deposits, payroll and such. People know that."

"I suppose that makes sense, Mike. Although you can always ask for an escort from my office, if you're carrying a lot of cash."

"No need to bother you, Ed, when I can handle myself just fine."

Eberly grinned. "That you can, Mike. That you can." He looked towards the windows for a long moment.

"I'm not going to talk you into this, am I."

"No."

"I want you to notice that I haven't asked you where you learned to shoot like that."

"Does that matter?"

"I suppose not," Eberly said. He put both hands on the arms of his chair and pushed himself up. "Though it's curious that I've known you for years, ever since you came to Astoria, and it's only now that I find out you're a professional gunman." Ahern's mouth opened, but Eberly raised a hand before he could say anything.

"No, Mike. That wasn't a question. You've been one hundred percent honest with me so far, and I appreciate that. If I don't ask, you don't have to tell." Eberly paused at the door.

"I'll leave you be for now, Mike. I got to remind you, though, I don't give up easy. If things don't start going better with the men I do have, I'll need your skills more than ever. In the meantime, keep that gun holstered."

"That's one thing you don't have to worry about, Ed. I'm a peace-loving man. That's why I don't allow alcohol to be served on my property. Keeps things quiet."

"I like the way you do business, Mike. See you later. Oh, and don't you worry – this conversation is between you and me only."

Ahern tried not to let the relief flooding through him show on his face. He only smiled genially as his friend, the sheriff, quietly left. Ahern walked over to the windows to watch Eberly exit the hotel, turn back and raise one hand in farewell. Only after the sheriff disappeared around the corner did Ahern almost blindly feel his way back to his big leather chair and drop into it, leaning back to stare at the ceiling. He thought of the irony of Eberly telling him that he was "one hundred percent honest." Not exactly accurate, since everything about him, starting with his name, was a lie.

Well. Nothing more he could do about it now. Better to think about something else. He reached for his account book and settled into studying last month's profit and loss numbers. He did just fine with the accounting, even though he still wished sometimes he had Heyes' natural talents with numbers. He'd catch up with his partner later in the day to let him know that Eberly wasn't investigating their backgrounds – at least for the moment. On that front, at least, they would be safe for a while longer.


	15. Chapter 15

It was past 6:00pm when Jacob Wheeler returned to the Clackamas County Jail. He felt relief when he rounded the corner and saw no one around the entrance except one nervous guard. Across the street, several armed men were standing around, smoking, spitting, and staring at him. Sheesh, no wonder the poor man looked nervous.

Wheeler felt the weight of the Remington hidden in the shoulder holster under his overcoat. It wouldn't do him much good if things got interesting, since he and the guard were outnumbered about four to one.

A phrase he'd heard in some Shakespeare play came to mind. How'd it go exactly? Oh yeah – "a coward dies a thousand deaths; the valiant taste death but once." He figured he could handle the thousand deaths just fine. It was the one that he wanted to avoid.

But besides a few dirty looks and intentional spits into the muddy street, the loitering men ignored him. The guard acknowledged him and let him in without question, and Wheeler slipped inside to the dubious safety of the jail.

"About time you got here, Mr. Wheeler. Your client's been asking for you." Oh goodie, Wheeler thought. Didn't Ferris ever go home?

"I've got other clients and other business, you know. I can't spend the whole day holding Curry's hand. Is your boss around?"

"He's in his office, talking to the new recruits." Wheeler took off his heavy overcoat and handed it to the surprised deputy.

"Alright, I'll check in on my client first and talk to Ed later." Ferris was still staring. "Aren't you going to hang that up?"

"What? Oh! Yes, sir, I guess." He still didn't move. Wheeler walked to the locked door and waited. And waited.

"How about unlocking the door for me, Deputy?"

Ferris seemed to wake up. "Mr. Wheeler, you'll have to take off that shoulder holster. I can't let you take a gun in back."

"Silly me! Of course you want this!" He unbuckled the holster and passed it to Ferris, who struggled to hold the holster and the overcoat. "I'm just not used to wearing a gun, Deputy. It seemed like a good idea, after everything that happened last night. I'm awful sorry to be so forgetful."

Flustered, Ferris hung the coat and holster on a hook. "No problem, Mr. Wheeler. I guess you got a point about carrying a gun, but it's best if you leave that to us professionals."

"Absolutely," Wheeler said, giving Ferris his biggest, brightest smile. "I'm sure you're right. Can you let me in now?"

"Yes sir, you bet." Ferris unlocked the big door and pulled it open for Wheeler. "You be careful now, Mr. Wheeler. Holler if you need anything."

"Thank you, Deputy, I sure will." When he was inside the cell area and the door was closed behind him, Wheeler's smile became less friendly and more wolfish. Ahern had been right about his ability to pull a con. He'd managed to get into the cell block without being searched.


	16. Chapter 16

Fred Philpott felt terrible. Really terrible. Worse than ever before. He was aware that people had come and gone, but he wasn't clear on who, or how long they'd been there, or what they'd been doing. The only one he was kind of clear on was the bear. The bear had come back and talked to him, asked some questions, felt his forehead and wrist and a couple other places, and then sat with him for a while. He was mildly surprised that a bear could be so nice. Maybe it was a tame bear. He'd heard how loggers sometimes found a bear cub and made it a pet, but he'd never heard of one being so tame as the one who walked like a man. This one had even talked and said he was named Cohen. Seemed like an odd name for a bear, but he'd heard of stranger things.

He lay on his side and curled up, trying to find a comfortable position, but he still felt awful. If he could have a drink, he knew he'd feel better. Used to be, he could get lots of free drinks by dropping a few hints about being Kid Curry. He'd gotten pretty good at it, to the point where he'd get lots of free drinks without having to shoot a gun. Those were good times, he thought. A lot of fun. He smiled at the memories. Someone was talking. Dammit it all. . . he rolled over and looked at the source of the annoying sound. Somebody was speaking, saying . . . oh. His name. Someone was talking to him. He squinted at the shape outlined in the lamp light. Not the bear. Too thin. Too short. Kind of familiar.

"Fred," the voice said. "Fred. Wake up, goddammit. I've got something for you. Something you wanted." He saw the man lean in to whisper. "Fred. You want a drink, don't you? I brought some whiskey for you."

Fred threw the tangled blanket on the floor and pushed himself into a sitting position.

"Whiskey? For me?" Fred's voice was raspy.

"Of course it's for you, Fred," the deep voice said. "Do you want it or not?" The man thrust a silver flask through the bars. Suddenly Fred was alert. He grabbed the flask and held it to his lips, head tilted back, gulping the liquid that burned his throat. God, it tasted so good. His whole insides felt warm, and the painful throbbing in his head seemed to recede. He put his head back and licked the last few drops. Finally, he leaned back against the cold brick wall, eyes closed, still holding the flask between his hands, and burped loudly.

"Excuse me," he said, politely. He was beginning to feel alive again. Slowly, cautiously, he opened one eye to look more closely at the man standing patiently outside his cell.

"Feeling better?" the man said. Fred nodded. "Good. Then give me back that thing before somebody comes in here."

Fred frowned. He tried to suck more fluid from the flask, but it was completely empty. In that case, he was willing to give it back.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." Jacob Wheeler looked closely at his client. Fred did look better. Maybe he could get some straight answers out of him now.

"Do you remember me, Fred?"

"Sure do, Mr. Heyes."

"I guess you don't remember me. I'm your lawyer, remember? My name is Wheeler, and I've got the thankless task of defending you on two charges of capital murder."

Fred shrugged, but didn't speak.

"Do you understand what's going to happen here?"

Fred still didn't respond.

"You're going on trial for your life. Witnesses from the Dalles are coming into town tomorrow, and they're probably going to swear, in front of a jury, that you were drunk and firing off your gun, and that means you're responsible for killing two 15-year-old girls who made the foolish mistake of being within range of your colt. And then the jury will deliberate for about 10 minutes before they deliver a guilty verdict and sentence you to be hung. And about two days after that, you'll make Astoria famous for being the final resting place of the notorious drunken murderer, Kid Curry. How's that sound to you?"

Fred looked up. He sounded almost sober.

"It sounds fine to me. I don't care."

"Do you really want to die that bad?"

"I hadn't thought much about it, I guess."

"Well, think about it, Fred, because it's probably going to happen, and there's probably not a damn thing I can do it, except maybe delay the inevitable for a day or so."

"What if I don't want to delay it?"

"What are you talking about?"

"What if I plead guilty?"

Wheeler's mouth open and closed without sound. His mind was spinning. What if Fred did plead guilty? Then this whole nightmare would be over with. Fred would hang, no doubt about it. That wasn't much of a loss.

On the other hand, wasn't it his responsibility to fight for his client? Fred had been firing his gun that night, but so was everybody else in that place. Statistically, it was a lot more likely that other men had been responsible for those deaths. What kind of lawyer would he be if he just took the expedient route to save himself and Kid?

He ran his hands through his hair, and wondered when he had acquired a conscience. Probably chasing that damn amnesty, he thought. Things had been so uncomplicated when he was a crook. He'd rarely wrestled with moral questions then.

He looked at Fred's scrawny neck. Wouldn't take much to snap that thing. He'd seen Fred climb up the wooden stairs to face a hangman once before, but that time, Fred had been in his right mind. Stupid, but in his right mind. Since then, he'd become a drunk suffering the d.t.'s. Not much was left of that young man he'd known, but Fred had been willing to die even then, if it meant going out in style.

"Why don't you care about hanging, Fred?"

"Dunno. Almost hung once before, remember? It wasn't so scary."

"Most people want to live. Why don't you?"

To Wheeler's astonishment, Fred began to cry. Tears streaked his dirty face, unhindered and unnoticed.

"How did things get so bad, Fred?"

Fred wiped his cheek with one hand. The tears kept coming. "I ruined everything. Everything I touch goes bad. If this is living, then I don't want to live no more."

Wheeler rested his forehead against the cold bars. "Fred. There's always hope. You got to have a little faith."

"I don't have no faith, Mr. Heyes. Maybe I never did. Maybe that's why I ended up here."

"Fred. Fred, I know you're feeling low now. That's a normal reaction. But think about it. We got you a good doctor, and he's worked a lot with inebriates. I know he can help you. All we got to do is convince a jury that a lot of people were shooting, not just you. We create what's called reasonable doubt. They can't convict you because there's no way the prosecution can absolutely prove it was your gun that killed those girls. Once we get a not guilty verdict, they'll ship you back to Wyoming and find out real quick you're not Kid Curry. Then you're a free man. "

"Free to do what?"

"Whatever you want! Just don't call yourself Kid Curry anymore. And stop drinking."

"I can't stop drinking. I tried. Lots of times. But I can't do it."

"Fred, Dr. Cohen can help you. He's helped other men sober up. He can do it for you, too, if you let him."

"No. No. I'm tired. Just go away. Leave me alone."

"I can't do that, Fred."

Suddenly Fred stood up and shouted. "Why won't you do what I ask you for?"

"I already did that. I brought you whiskey, like you asked."

"No. No. That's not what I mean. I want you to plead guilty for me. I don't need no trial. Just plead guilty. Then that's it."

"Fred." Wheeler's voice was low. "Asking for a guilty plea is suicide, and that shows you aren't thinking clearly. I have to represent your best interests, even in you don't understand what they are."

"I'll tell you something I understand," Fred said. "I understand that there's still a dead or alive warrant out for Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry. I understand that if Hannibal Heyes is walking around Astoria, hiding from the law under an alias, Kid Curry's close by, doing the same thing. You think that honest sheriff could use $20,000?"

"Oh, Fred," Wheeler said. "Have you forgotten? It's not a good idea to threaten me."

"What are you going to do to me? Leave me to hang? I don't care about that. When they take me to the gallows, I'll be waving bye-bye to you and your best friend from the next cell."

Wheeler felt torn between hate, fear and pity.

"Go right ahead, Fred. Do your worst. Do you think anybody's going to believe you? You're a drunk. I'm offering you some hope, which nobody else will do for you, by the way. This is probably the last chance you'll have to do something with your miserable life. Take it."

"Who are you to tell me what to do? You ruined people's lives when you took their money. And now you care about me? You do what I tell you to do, or I'll sing like a canary. I'll ruin you."

"You don't have that power, Fred. You're nothing. You're a nobody who tried to be somebody, and look where you've ended up, wallowing in your own piss and begging for a drink. I'll do what I think is the right thing to do in this case. The way you're acting, I can tell the court you're not sane, and that you're incapable of making decisions for yourself."

"I don't want you to!" Fred shouted angrily. "I don't want that! I'll tell!"

"What's going on here? What don't you want, Kid?" Both Wheeler and Fred turned towards the new voice. Sheriff Eberly stood just inside the cell block, right hand resting on the six-gun at his side.

"It's nothing, Ed," Wheeler said. "Just a difference of opinion between me and my client. Nothing to concern you."

"It concerns me when I hear raised voices coming from my cell block. That doesn't sound like a typical lawyer-client consultation."

"Sheriff. Sheriff." Fred was almost jumping up and down in his agitation. "I want a lawyer. A real one. Get Heyes out of here."

"For God's sake, Kid!" Wheeler said. "I've told you and told you, Heyes isn't coming to rescue you this time. And he's not in the next cell over. He's not working for the sheriff. And he sure is hell isn't waiting for you in the saloon. Heyes is gone, Devil's Hole is gone, and you're going to be gone too, if you don't listen to the advice of counsel."

Wheeler turned back towards the sheriff.

"I'm sorry, Ed. My client is not in his right mind. I've been trying to talk sense to him, but he just starts hollering about Hannibal Heyes and some fellas named Wheat and Kyle. He's even talking about seeing the preacher, but when I tell him I can get Reverend Williston for him, he gets upset and says, no, no, I mean Preacher! I'm just not getting through to him half the time."

"Understood, Jake. He hasn't been making a whole lot of sense with my men either. He even said Hannibal Heyes had been in to talk to him about his defense."

"Well, it's pretty easy to see why Curry's been on his own, Ed. I imagine Heyes couldn't control him any more than you or I can."

Both men looked at Fred, who was sliding down to the floor.

"Damn shame," Ed remarked. "Can't say Curry belongs anywhere but jail for twenty years, but still, you hate to see a man come to this state."

"Yeah, sure is." Wheeler said. "Ed, can you give me a couple minutes alone with my client? I promise, I'll try to get him to keep it down."

"Sure thing. Holler when you want out."

"Will do. Thanks." Wheeler waited till the sheriff left and the door clicked shut behind him before speaking to his reluctant client.

"You know what Hannibal Heyes would do to a member of the Devil's Hole Gang who refused a direct order?" Fred didn't respond. "I'm asking you a question, and I expect an answer. Do you know what Heyes would do?"

"No sir."

"Heyes would have him beaten till he peed blood. You'd best keep that in mind when I'm talking to you. There's things worse than hanging. You got it?" No answer. He looked at Fred, cowering and crouched against the bars. Wheeler kicked him hard, twice.

"I got it, I got it." Fred was bent over and hugging himself where Wheeler had kicked him.

"Now, you are going to keep your big mouth shut about Hannibal Heyes. My name is Wheeler, and that's what you're going to call me. I'm going to consider your request to change your plea to guilty, and I will let you know tomorrow if I agree or not. But whatever I decide, you are going to do it. Clear?" There was no answer. "I said, is that clear? Because I'll kick you half to death if you don't do what I say."

"Okay. Okay." Fred was crouched on the floor. Wheeler looked at him with pity. It was a rotten thing he'd done, but damn it, what else could he do to get through to him? Whether or not he'd plead guilty just so shut his client's mouth a little sooner . . . well, that was a bigger decision. He'd have to think that one over.

He hit the cell block door with his fist three times. "I'm ready to get out of here, Ed." More than ready. He could hear Fred behind him, sobbing. He didn't look back.


End file.
